The Captain's Mission (Military Investigations, 2) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

 Debby Giusti is a medical technologist who loves working with test tubes and petri dishes almost as much as she loves to write. Growing up as an Army Brat, Debby met and married her husband--then a Captain in the Army--at Fort Knox, Kentucky. Together they traveled the world, raised three wonderful Army Brats of their own and have now settled in Atlanta, Georgia, where Debby spins tales of suspense that touch the heart and soul.

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"Cease fire!" U.S. Army Captain Jean Philippe Thibo-deaux screamed into the handheld radio microphone from inside his Bradley Fighting Vehicle. The order echoed back to him as the "cease fire" was relayed across the live-fire range to the three platoons involved in the training exercise at Fort Rickman, Georgia.

Under Phil's command, his two-hundred-man company of soldiers had advanced on a series of targets representing enemy strongholds. The men had maneuvered for nearly an hour, firing live rounds that ripped through the cardboard facsimiles of enemy soldiers while the unit's heavier weapons shot at mock-ups of armored personnel carriers and enemy tanks. The mission had gone like clockwork with nary a glitch, but only minutes before the completion of the exercise everything had come to an unexpected halt.

Heart hammering in his chest, Phil leaped from the Bradley from which he had led the attack and ran toward the small rise on the so-called battlefield where a group of men clustered. Behind him, the executive officer and First Sergeant Jerry Meyers followed Phil's lead.

A frenzy of activity erupted as men exited their vehicles. Foot soldiers stopped their forward advancement and looked around as if trying to find a reason why the attack had been halted.

In the distance, a field ambulance raced along the rugged terrain and screeched to a stop near the small rise. A team of medics disappeared into the sea of camouflage uniforms that had gathered.

Moments earlier, the blasts of 25-millimeter chain guns and the staccato fire of the M-4 carbines had filled the February evening in a mounting crescendo until the captain's order halted the Bradleys and suspended the battle.

The governor of the State of Georgia and his entourage as well as military personnel from post and a select group of local civilians had watched from the reviewing stands and bleachers as C Company, Second Battalion, Fifteenth Infantry—Phil's company—had advanced on the targets.

One face had stood out from the crowd. Special Agent Kelly McQueen was blonde and blue-eyed and had been assigned to guard the visiting dignitaries. Along with the military police, Agent McQueen was, no doubt, currently directing the VIPs out of the reviewing stands and escorting them into vans parked by the roadway. Without delay, she would escort them to the airfield on post where a plane waited to fly them back to Atlanta.

In similar fashion, the crowd of onlookers in the bleachers would be herded aboard buses for transport back to the main post area. Every effort was being made to maintain calm and order. No one wanted panic to ensue or to alert the public that anything out of the ordinary had occurred. The falling darkness and mass of soldiers gathered around the incident site would keep curious eyes at bay.

God willing, no one would realize the magnitude of the problem downrange. Not that Phil would count on the Lord. After everything that had happened in his childhood, he had vowed long ago to make his own way in life.

To this day, he refused to acknowledge a so-called loving God who allowed his father to go to prison and his mother to care more about her career than her twelve-year-old son whose world had come crashing down around him.

The same feelings he'd had as a young boy were bubbling up within him now. What had gone wrong?

Phil increased his speed, ignoring the dust stirred up by the Bradleys that had rumbled across the range. The smell of cordite and smoke, produced from the exploding rounds, mixed with the dirt-clogged air and hovered over the range, painting the desolate terrain in an eerie veil of gloom.

Nearing the crest of the rise, he pushed through the throng of soldiers that had taken part in the training mission. They now stared with wide eyes and drawn faces at the medics who feverishly tried to bring the soldier back to life.

Phil's gut constricted as his eyes focused on Corporal Rick Taylor, First Platoon. The medics had removed the outer tactical vest that had protected Taylor's chest but not his groin, where a bullet had ripped through his flesh. Blood—too much blood—soaked through his uniform and mixed with the red Georgia clay. One of the medics jammed a handful of gauze squares into the open wound, stopping the flow of blood as a second man pushed down on Taylor's sternum. A third cut through the sleeve of his uniform and searched for a vein.

The trio worked feverishly, but Taylor's limp body failed to respond. Eventually, the medics sat back on their haunches and shook their heads. The leader of the team turned doleful eyes to Phil. "There's nothing more we can do."

"You can continue CPR," Phil demanded. A mix of anger and determination swelled within him.

"It's useless, sir."

Their refusal to follow his command frustrated Phil. He shoved them aside and dropped to his knees beside the fallen soldier. Fisting his own hands, he pushed down on Taylor's chest.

"Sir, please." One of the medics tugged on Phil's sleeve.

He jerked his arm away. "I won't let him die."

The gathering of soldiers pressed in even closer. Phil glanced up at his first sergeant. "Clear the area."

"Yes, sir." Jerry Meyers raised his voice. "You heard Captain Thibodeaux, let's move it."

The men—officers, noncommissioned officers and enlisted men—backed away from the death scene and lumbered toward the edge of the range.

A second medic attempted to pull Phil away from the fallen soldier. "He's gone, sir."

Twisting out of the soldier's hold, Phil blew two quick breaths into Corporal Taylor's mouth. He hadn't lost a man in Afghanistan. He would do everything in his power to ensure he didn't lose a soldier stateside.

"Sir, please."

Once again, Phil interlaced his fingers and pushed down on Taylor's chest as he continued to count. "And one and two and…"

Someone knelt in the dirt next to him. A heavy hand rested on his shoulder. "Phil, it's over. You've got to stop."

He glanced up to see his battalion commander's face lined with concern.

"You hear me, son?"

"But, sir—"

Lieutenant Colonel Ken Knowlton—tall and lanky, with a pointed nose and penetrating eyes—placed his hands firmly over Phil's doubled fists and lifted them off the fallen soldier's chest. "You tried your best, Captain. The good Lord called Corporal Taylor home."

Phil jerked out of his hold just as he had done with the medics.

"Listen to me, Phil. You've got to stop. It's over. There's nothing you can do to bring him back."

His commander's voice was firm, and his words cut like a knife into Phil's heart. As much as he didn't want to comply, Lieutenant Colonel Knowlton was right.

A lump clogged Phil's throat, and his eyes blurred. He blinked to clear his vision and focused on Taylor's ashen face.

Knowlton's hand on Phil's elbow encouraged him to stand. Struggling to his feet, he turned his gaze to the thick patch of tall pine trees that rimmed the edge of the training range. He didn't want anyone, especially his battalion commander, to see the moisture that stung his eyes.

He swallowed down the mass of burning bile that had risen from his stomach and, with clenched jaw and sheer determination, turned back to his commander. "I…I can assure you, sir, I'll get to the bottom of this."

Knowlton nodded his support. "Talk to the men, Phil. Find out what happened. Determine if anyone had a grudge against Taylor."

Phil tensed. "Morale is good in the unit, sir. We haven't had any problems."

"That's how it seemed prior to this mission." The commander patted Phil's back. "But now...